Independence Day
AN AMERICAN FLAG
Oddly still, posted in gray dusty sand.
WIDEN TO REVEAL:
One small step for man, one large pile of garbage for moon-
kind. Untouched for years, the flag stands next to the
castoff remains of the Apollo mission. Slowly the discarded
equipment begins to RATTLE and SHAKE.
AN ENORMOUS SHADOW creeps towards us blotting out the horizon,
a loud RUMBLE is heard.
Suddenly we are covered in DARKNESS as the SHADOW engulfs us.
Only the lonely image of our EARTH hangs in the air, until a
huge silhouetted OBJECT suddenly blocks our view.
CUT TO:
EXT. NEW MEXICO - RADIO TELESCOPE VALLEY - NIGHT
A field of large satellite dishes scan the skies.
Super up:
S.E.T.I. INSTITUTE, NEW MEXICOINT. INSTITUTE - MONITORING CONTROL CENTER - SAME
A lone TECHNICIAN works on his putting skills. Behind him,
wall to wall technical equipment quietly sifts through data.
The Technician turns and slowly walks towards the source. One
by one a series of LIGHTS turn on. The Technician (TECH ONE)
grabs a pair of headphones. His eyes widen.
Sleepily a SUPERVISOR picks up the phone.
SUPERVISOR:
If this isn't an insanely
beautiful woman, I'm hanging up.
TECH ONE:
Shut up and listen.
He holds the phone up to a speaker, increases the volume. A
strange FLUCTUATING TONE plays out in sequential patterns.
HEARING it, the Supervisor BOLTS UP, banging his head on the
bunk above him.
INT. CONTROL CENTER - MOMENTS LATER
A pajama party on acid. Five other technicians, in various
states of undress, hover anxiously around the main console.
The Supervisor enters, tying his robe.
SUPERVISOR:
God, I hope it's not just another
damned Russian spy job.
TECH THREE:
(overlapping)
Negative. Computer affirms the
signal is unidentified.
TECH TWO:
(hanging up the phone)
The boy from Air Res Traffic say the
skies are clear. No terrestrial
launches.
TECH ONE:
It's the real thing. A radio
signal from another world.
The room becomes quiet as they realize that after years of
searching the heavens, they might have finally found
something.
SUPERVISOR:
Let's not jump the gun. Run a
trajectory source computation.
Tech Three slides over to another computer.
SUPERVISOR (cont'd)
I want to know exactly where it's
coming from.
TECH THREE:
This can't be right.
Tech Three just stares at his screen in disbelief.
SUPERVISOR:
What's wrong?
TECH THREE:
Calculated distance from source is
at three hundred and eight five
thousand kilometers.
(turning to Supervisor)
It's coming from the moon.
The Supervisor reaches over and turns up the volume on the
speaker. As they listen to the strange TONES we...
CUT TO:
INT. HALLWAY - PENTAGON - SAME
Elevator doors OPENS revealing four star GENERAL GREY,
Commander in Chief U.S. Space Command. Understandably
nervous, the COMMANDING OFFICER escorts him down the hall.
GENERAL GREY:
COMMANDING OFFICER
S.E.T.I. in New Mexico identified a
signal but they're even more
confused than we are.
The General shoots him a disapproving glance.
COMMANDING OFFICER
Excuse me, Sir.
He slides his security card through the lock and the doors fly
open.
INT. SPACE COMMAND - THE PENTAGON - CONTINUOUS
Banks of computers, Technicians and assistants working
feverishly through the night. The Officers cross the room.
Super:
SPACE COMMAND - THE PENTAGONCOMMANDING OFFICER
Satellite reception has been
impaired but we were able to get
these.
They arrive at a glass table. The surrounding officers snap
to attention as a SECOND OFFICER quickly brings over a large
transparency. We SEE a grainy image of a large vague OBJECT.
GENERAL GREY:
Looks like a big turd.
The two Officers exchange a glance.
COMMANDING OFFICER
We estimate it has a diameter of
over five hundred and fifty
kilometers and a mass roughly one
fourth the size of our moon.
The General turns to the Second Officer, concerned.
GENERAL GREY:
A meteor?
SECOND OFFICER:
No Sir. Definitely not.
GENERAL GREY:
How do you know?
SECOND OFFICER:
Well, er... it's slowing down.
GENERAL GREY:
It's doing what?
SECOND OFFICER:
It's... slowing down, Sir.
The General walks over to a phone, picks it up.
GENERAL GREY:
Get me the Secretary of Defense.
(pause)
Then wake him up.
CUT TO:
INT. WHITMORE'S BEDROOM - FRE-DAWN
Laying in bed THOMAS J. WHITMORE reads a stack of papers. The
phone RINGS.
WOMAN'S VOICE
(filtering through phone)
Hi. It's me.
The warm look on Whitmore's face tells us everything about how
he feels about the woman on the other end.
WHITMORE:
Hi honey. What time is it there?
Dressed in a night gown, MRS. MARGARET WHITMORE unpacks her
briefing papers lays them out on a small desk as she talks.
Through the window we SEE Los Angeles at night.
MARGARET:
Two in the morning. I know I
didn't wake you?
WHITMORE:
(filtered)
As a matter of fact you did.
MARGARET:
(smiles)
Liar.
Whitmore sits up.
WHITMORE:
I have a confession to make.
There's a beautiful young blonde
sleeping next to me.
Sleeping next to him, his six-year-old daughter, PATRICIA.
MARGARET:
(filtered)
You didn't let her stay up
watching T.V. all night?
WHITMORE:
Of course not.
The little girl stirs awake, looks up.
PATRICIA:
Mommy?
WHITMORE:
You're flying back right after the
luncheon? Okay, here she is.
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"Independence Day" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 25 Apr. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/independence_day_723>.
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